


platinum weather, strung together

by vashtaneradas



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 23:55:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vashtaneradas/pseuds/vashtaneradas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>au; harry is the lead singer of britain’s best new indie rock outfit, louis is his pop star best friend, and nick and caroline are rolling stone magazine’s best and brightest. it gets complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	platinum weather, strung together

**Author's Note:**

> own nothing/know nothing/obviously. completely fictionalised.
> 
> title from the grates' the night won't start without us.
> 
> part of the bella-tries-to-move-all-her-writing-over-to-ao3 marathon of 2013.

Caroline is, like, fairly certain this is going to be a shit day.

For starters, she’s running late. She needs to remember not to ever let Nick convince her that drinking a bottle of wine between them at one in the morning is a good idea, because it makes getting up at seven difficult. He’s a brilliant journalist, her favourite coworker and the best housemate in the world, but ‘good influence’ is not high on his list of attributes.

So now she’s here at the office, scanning her Rolling Stone ID through the turnstile and running for the lift with a hangover that’s making her dread her day that little bit more.

It’s not that she doesn’t want to meet 17 Black. They’re great musicians, touted by every second music journo as Britain’s best indie rock act this decade. It’s not that she doesn’t like their music or anything, and even if she did, it wouldn’t be a problem. She’s interviewed Justin Bieber three times (a fact she likes to keep secret, thank you very much), she can get on with someone perfectly fine without liking their music.

No, it’s that this particular band, Harry Styles and his quiffed sidekick on guitar Zayn Malik and little Irish drummer Niall Horan, this band are managed by Alex. And she’s been out on a total of three dates with Alex since deciding to get her life in check (this means, categorically, no more dating post-punk bassists or Swedish folk singers or three-times-in-rehab mod revivalists) and she actually, kind of, likes him. He’s sweet. He’s stable and sure, a little boring sometimes, but she likes him a lot. And meeting the band he manages is just, it’s a bad idea. It makes things awkward if she doesn’t like them, because manager’s whole lives are the band they work with. It makes things weird if she ends up getting along with them, because managers tend to get jealous of the band they work with. It’s just…nothing good can really come from today, and she’s not thrilled about the prospect of fucking up this relationship before it really even begins.

Still, Nick had told her not to worry. He’s friends with Harry, has been for a while – she teases him mercilessly about being friend with a nineteen year old, it’s one of the only things she has on him – and he says he’s a good guy and all of that. So. She wills herself not to just go bury herself in the music library in the basement and gets out of the lift on the fifth floor. (Never let it be said that Caroline Flack is not a dedicated fucking journalist.)

She makes her way through the office, saying hi to Greg and Fearne and the rest of the ragtag lot that make up Rolling Stone UK. It’s kind of weird, she thinks, that these few people, chain smoking and blaring the new Julio Bashmore and desperately trying to finish an article before deadline while hungover can come together each month to create something quite wonderful. In her sappier moments, it’s the reason she loves this job, the reason she sticks around even when it’s hard and hours are long and readers maybe less than appreciative.

“Oi! Caz!” she turns, almost spilling coffee on her shirt in the process, to Greg, who’s called her name across the office. “Band are waiting for you upstairs, babe. You know when Grimmy’s coming in? Editor’s been asking for him.”

“Thanks,” she calls, smiling over her shoulder but not stopping, “and no, sorry. Last time I saw him he was singing Kylie on SingStar. I’d say it’ll be a couple of hours.”

Greg rolls his eyes fondly and she laughs, but doesn’t keep talking because she’s late and rockstars generally hate that. She assumes nineteen-year-old rockstars hate it even more. Fantastic.

The lift is impossibly slow and as she steps out she nearly crashes right into Alex, who’s tapping away on his phone and doesn’t see her step out.

“Shit!” he says, before looking up, expression of annoyance growing into a soft smile, “Oh! Sorry, Caz, here, let me help you.”

He picks up the stack of magazines he’s knocked out of her hand hurriedly and puts them back on top of the pile. She smiles as he plants a kiss on her cheek.

“Where are you off to, then?” she asks with a smile, but he doesn’t stop, just jumps in the lift to go down.

“Sorry, darling, just a work call. I’ll be back later, though,” he says, flicking his eyes up to her, “band are next door.”

With that the elevator closes and, like, okay. She wasn’t expecting the royal treatment or anything, but still. She’s kind of doing him a favour here, a Rolling Stone article can do wonders for a band. The least he could do is stay for the duration.

She walks into the huge studio where she’s meant to be interviewing them. It’s all ready for their covershoot, guitars and props scattered everywhere, cameras on tripods round the room contrasting with the harsh white light. It burns her eyes a little as she dumps her papers on the catering table, and with a yawn she looks around properly.

There are crew and lighting and sound guys flitting round everywhere, it kind of makes it hard to spot the band. She finally sees Zayn, though, in the corner – he’s hard to miss, big blonde streak running through his hair, so adorably teenager – and with a smile she walks over. Nick better be right, they better be bearable.

She’s still a few feet away when Zayn sees her, and to his credit he smiles and comes over to her, shakes her hand with all sincerity.

“Hi,” he says, “Hi, nice to meet you, I’m Zayn.”

“Caroline,” she says, “How’re you going?”

“Yeah, good. Listen, Niall’s just over there and Harry’s popped out but he should be back any sec—“

“Can feel my ears turning red, Zayner.” Caroline wheels around, half scared to death at the voice behind her, all deep and gravelly and so familiar; she’s only listened to the record about three million times. And there, smiling at her, is Harry Styles, and, oh.

Because he’s gorgeous. And not well fit, as Nick had casually described him last night. No he’s like, actually gorgeous. He has this tangled, curly hair that’s falling into his eyes, earphone dangling lazily from his left ear. He smiles at her with slightly parted lips and big sparkling green eyes and she can feel herself under his gaze, his eyes moving up her calves and her thighs and her waist and her chest until he’s looking right at her, and she wonders if anyone’s ever looked so sexy before.

“Hi,” he says, and that voice, that voice may just be the death of her, it’s like chocolate and gravel and sex, “Hi, I’m Harry. It’s so lovely to meet you.”

He shakes her hand and kisses her on both cheeks, and she’d roll her eyes if he didn’t seem so fucking sincere.

“Caroline,” she murmurs in response, “Hi. Nice of you to join us.”

He laughs at that, eyes a little surprised, chews thoughtfully on his gum. His white t-shirt, she notices, is cut low to reveal the tips of two swallow tattoos. There is something about Harry fucking Styles that is the most intensely attractive thing she’s ever seen.

“Sorry, sorry, I hate being late,” he says, brow furrowed, “here, can I get you anything? A cuppa, or something?”

She blinks a few times because, well. He’s a fucking rockstar. Offering her tea. Because he was all of a minute late. She doesn’t quite know what to say. Harry just smiles though, gestures over at the couch where by now Zayn and Niall are waiting for them to walk over.

“Grimmy was right,” he says as they walk, “you really are so, so beautiful.”

And oh, she’d kind of forgotten he’s friends with Nick.

There are a number of other things she had apparently forgotten in that two minute exchange, too. They include: Harry Styles is nineteen years old. She is thirty-three years old. Harry Styles is the lead singer of 17 Black, which is managed by the man she is supposedly dating to pull her life together, Alex.

Okay.

“Thanks,” she says, blushing like a fourteen year old, “not too bad yourself.”

He grins like it’s Christmas.

“Hmm. D’you think he’s only friends with us because we’re good looking, then?” he asks.

Caroline opens and closes her mouth, because from anyone else it’d sound awful but Harry is this fucking intoxicating mix of so fucking smooth talking and languid and gorgeous but also young and sweet and childish and it just works on him.

The interview begins, and Harry laughs and talks and smiles – dimples, he has dimples – the whole way through it. He jokes around with Niall and when it’s needed looks at her so earnestly and happily as he goes on about some guitar or another, a show in Blackpool, a party in New York. When they take a break, he brings back a cup of tea for each of them and whips out a Tylenol for Zayn when he complains of a headache. He stares at her with a smile the whole time they pose for their covershoot, and the worst part is, she encourages it, pulling faces or mouthing something at him to make his break focus and giggle, all bright and lovely.

She is, for all intents and purposes, so, so fucked.

**

“Grimmy,” Harry mutters dreamily a week later, “Grimmy she was beautiful. She knew, like, so much, about music and guitars and our record. I wanted to talk to her all day.”

Nick snorts and takes a sip of his coffee. They like this café, mostly because it’s tucked into a little alleyway in Camden and people here are either too cool or too hungover to ask Harry for a picture. It works well.

“Oh, yeah, she told me you were quite the flirt. You’re really, really beautiful was apparently uttered in the first two minutes of conversation,” he teases dryly, “smooth, Styles. Very smooth.”

Harry blushes a brilliant shade of red.

“God, she’ll think I’m an idiot. She’ll think I’m some dumb creepy teenager, God.”

Nick would love to keep torturing Harry, but there’s something about those wide concerned eyes that make it impossibly difficult to be harsh.

“As much as it pains me to say it,” Nick says begrudgingly, before his tone drops to idle contemplation, “I think she took quite the shining to you, Harry. Which sucks for me, if my two best friends end up in some hot and grungy rock n’ roll affair. But then again, she would have to stop being a bitch about me being friends with a nineteen year old if she’s dating one. So there’s that, I suppose.”

Harry looks mildly perplexed at this train of thought.

“Point is,” Nick says, and thinks not for the first time that he should learn to shut up one day, “point is, she’s been all disgustingly moon eyed over you all week so you should see her again.”

(He’s not lying, either. They’ve spent the week either on the couch eating Chinese takeaway, Caroline banging on about how wonderful he was, or in clubs all across town where Caroline did nothing but look for Harry while pretending to try and find Alex or flag down a staff member. No, he’s certainly not lying.)

Harry shakes his head with a sigh, though.

“Nah,” he says, “she’s dating Alex. I’m fucked.”

Nick rolls his eyes. He knows Caroline back to front, they’ve been friends since university, worked together for two years and lived together for one. He knows her better than he knows almost anyone, except maybe Harry but that’s only because he lets himself be ridiculously easy to read. Caroline has this idea in her mind that it’s time to Grow Up. She has a plan she’s put together to do just that – get articles in a week before deadline, don’t turn up at work or an interview hungover, sleep with less people and find someone sensible to date. Save some money instead of blowing it all on first edition records and crap furniture at Sunday markets. She’s stuck to this plan for almost a month, and Nick knows the only reason she’s dating Alex is because he fits into it. Problem is, it’s not going to last. Caroline isn’t that girl, with 2.5 children and a sizeable mortgage and a Range Rover. At least not yet, anyway.

“No you’re not,” he says, “he’s just convenient. I know Caz. She likes a rockstar and she likes you. Alex is…” he waves his hand emphatically, “boring, or something.”

“He’s a lovely guy,” Harry muses, “she deserves someone like him.”

Nick sometimes can’t believe the way Harry speaks; one day will ask him how he manages to fit so many clichés into one sentence. Not today though, because Harry’s all miserably biting his lip and Nick feels a little sorry for him. Annoyingly, because he doesn’t like to feel sorry for anyone.

“Trust me when I say it’ll be over in a month,” he says firmly, and he doesn’t miss the sad smile that flicks across Harry’s face, “now sparkle up and tell me why you dragged me here to meet some crap friend of yours that I’ll probably hate.”

Harry does indeed sparkle up at that. He hadn’t actually come here to moan at Nick about how pretty Caroline’s hair was and how long her legs were and how clever she sounded all the time, no. His motives were actually far less self indulgent than that; he’d had this idea for a while and this was the first Saturday in a long time that all three parties had been free.

“Oh yeah!” he says enthusiastically, sitting up and checking his phone, “yeah, Lou’s lovely. I’ve wanted you two to meet for ages, you’ll love him.”

Nick narrows his eyes.

“No. No, no, no, is this Lou as in your twinky little pop star friend Louis Tomlinson Lou? Harry!” he exclaims, “Harry! You have to tell me shit like this! I hate him, d’you think I would’ve come if I knew?”

“Firstly,” Harry says, rolling his eyes at the dramatics, “you don’t know him, so you can’t hate him. Secondly, yes, I knew you wouldn’t come. Which is why I didn’t tell you, obviously.”

Nick glares.

“I hate his music,” he says bitterly, “I hate his loudmouth in every interview ever and I hate how he dresses and I hate how you scamper off to clubs with him every weekend and leave me alone.”

Harry sighs, shakes his head as he checks his phone.

“You’re an idiot. You hate my music, too, you know. You’re the biggest loudmouth in the world, so that’s hardly a problem. He only dresses like that for promo stuff and he’s, like, one of my best friends and I love spending time with him so stop being a prick and just give him a chance.”

Nick considers rebutting all those points again but can’t be bothered because a) Harry will most likely win and b) he just wants to eat his brownie, so. He lets it go, kind of.

“Why are you two even friends, anyway?” he asks snappily. The kid is a twat, he’s seen him all over MTV and articles in the very magazine he writes for, for fuck’s sake. He doesn’t understand how Harry, of all people, could find him remotely appealing. For all his indie rock grunge look, he’s sunshine, and Louis Tomlinson seems the antithesis of that.

“I’ve told you this, like, a million times,” Harry says, rolling his eyes, but Nick draws a blank. He actually can’t remember. Harry sighs, long suffering. “We met, like, three years ago. We were both gonna audition for X Factor but got bored in the line so we went for ice cream instead. We called each other like a year later and we were both in London and then…” he gestures around him, as though the air above his head represents their careers, “y’know. All this.”

“All this,” Nick echoes, smirking, looking round the dingy coffee shop. Harry ignores him.

“Please Nick, give him a chance, I think you’d like him,” he says, and really, Nick isn’t one to resist that face.

“You owe me, Styles,” he mutters, and Harry just beams, but not at him.

“Lou!” he calls over to the door, and Nick rolls his eyes. He can’t even see him yet and he’s already annoying. Harry seems to catch his expression though and kicks him.

“Be nice,” he mutters, before standing with a smile.

Harry walks over to meet Louis and he can hear the two of them embracing and laughing as they come back over. Nick doesn’t turn back around because he doesn’t really care to see that, thank you very much. He’s perfectly happy with his soy latte and (kind of unjustified, if he’s being honest) dislike of Louis Tomlinson.

“Oh.”

That is the first syllable Louis utters to him, and it’s hardly doing anything to change his stubborn perception. With a bittersweet smile, all sickly sweet, Nick flicks his eyes up from his phone to look at Louis, and. Well. Okay, then.

He looks – Nick admits this very, very begrudgingly – lovely. He’s in a mid blue sweater, hair sitting in a messy fringe rather than the ridiculous quiff he usually sports (he’s not being hypocritical, he’s not. Nick’s looks good. Louis’ looks dumb). He’s wearing black jeans that look like they’ve come out a can they’re so tight, clinging to his (tremendously lovely) ass and (tremendously biteable) thighs, slightly rolled at the ankle. He’s little, too, Nick’s never realised that before, and it’s sort of endearing. He flicks his eyes over to Harry who’s smirking at his apparently unsubtle checking out of Louis, so he snaps himself out of it.

“Nice to meet you,” he drawls. As lovely as Louis looks he does not trust the glint in his eye, mostly because he’s fairly sure he sports the same glint every now and again.

But there is no biting rhetoric or scathing criticism. No, Louis just slides into the seat between Nick and Harry’s and smiles, bright.

“Hi,” he says, “nice to meet you too. Harry’s told me a lot about you. I read your article the other week, the interview with Bombay Bicycle Club, right?”

Nick nods, slightly open-mouthed. He…he doesn’t understand. Louis is, like, pretty and little and polite and really, really cute. He’s usually over-tanned and over-opinionated and overly everything. But he’s smiling at Nick now, up through his eyelashes and Nick is pretty sure he should care that Harry has a shit-eating told you so grin on his face but he doesn’t. Louis seems relaxed, charmingly relaxed, like he feels comfortable enough to drop the air of superiority. Nick wants to cuddle him. He shakes his head slightly at that thought, because really. What the fuck is he even thinking. Louis just continues though, apparently unfased.

“It was great, I love them,” he says emphatically, and it hardly matters that Nick really is indifferent towards them because Louis Tomlinson is speaking and he’s not being a twat, “Well. Harry loves them. I jumped on the bandwagon.”

Harry laughs at that, starts on about how great Bombay Bicycle Club are but how Two Door are marginally better and also how he prefers the slightly rockier sound of The Vaccines, but Nick’s only half tuning in. All he’s really focusing on is the way Louis puts his glasses on and bites his lip as he reads the menu.

“Haz, love,” Louis says with an eye roll a few seconds later, “very interesting, and all, but do you think we could talk about something I can say more than three words about?”

Harry grins and flips him off, raises an eyebrow challengingly.

“Well that limits us to, like, the difference between hair products and Robbie Williams’ discography post-Take That.”

Louis drops his jaw and raises his eyebrows, all mock affronted, and Nick can’t help but smile to himself because he’s such an overdramatic little asshole and Nick wants to watch him do that facial expression forever.

“Well fuck you, Styles, I was gonna get you a cookie when I went up to get my coffee but looks like that’s not happening.” Harry – predictably – looks genuinely troubled by this turn of events and after a few seconds Louis just rolls his eyes lovingly and runs a hand through that truly unruly hair.

“Relax, I’ll get you a fucking cookie.” He turns to Nick with a smile and locks eyes with him for a second.

“Back in a minute,” he says, and with that he stands and walks over to the counter, and Nick can hear him making small talk with the waitress and graciously taking a photo with a girl in the queue behind him.

He turns to Harry who just looks so utterly pleased with himself that Nick wants to slap him, a bit.

“Harry, I—“

“I know,” he says smugly.

Nick needs some hard liquor, or something, because he can’t decide if the sight of Louis’ arse as he bends down to ponder the pastries or the way he smiles as he walks back to the table is worse.

**

Nick and Caroline stare at each other dubiously over dinner. It’s Saturday night, usually they’d go out, but they’re exhausted and both utterly fucked so they’ve decided to stay in. Nick’s cooked a not half bad stir fry, they’ve found some cheap wine in the fridge. It’s all good, actually, except for their crumbling love lives.

“Did he really say that?” she asks, brow furrowed, “he wanted to talk to me all day? God, he’s a teenager, Nick.”

Nick can’t help but grin.

“Yeah. A teenager that you’re in love with and who’s in love with you so dump the sodding manager and let’s move it along, sweetheart,” he says. She glowers at him, unimpressed.

“I really do like Alex, you know,” she says quietly, twirling a noodle round her fork idly, “he’s sweet. He’s the best guy I’ve dated in a while. I’m not throwing that away for some kid in a band, I can’t do that again.”

Nick would make a joke but she seems kind of upset. He smiles at her, big and genuine, nudges her ankle under the table.

“Hey,” he says softly, making her look up. She really is so beautiful, he doesn’t tell her that enough. If he was ever to date a girl, she’d be top of his list. She runs a hand through her hair tiredly, smiles back. “Sorry, babe. I didn’t mean to be a wanker, I know you like him.”

She pauses, stares at him for a few seconds before her face breaks into a wicked grin.

“You, Nick Grimshaw,” she says proudly, taking a sip of wine, “are far too easily broken. Enough about me. What’s the deal with you and this definitely-not-a-blind-date, hmm?”

Nick rolls his eyes emphatically. The thing is, he and Caroline have this unhealthy relationship where they can’t help but tell each other everything. So naturally he’d come home and given her the minute by minute run down of his weird coffee date with Harry and Louis and she had confirmed that it was, indeed, a blind date (granted, chaperoned by Harry, but still a date), and that he should certainly go on another.

“There is no deal,” he says shortly, answering her question, “He was nice because Harry probably begged him to be. He had nice glasses. He had a nice arse. That’s it.”

(He forgets to mention that he was witty and entertaining and a charming raconteur and quite scathingly funny when he wanted to be. She maybe doesn’t need to know he’d analysed Louis’ character to this extent after meeting him for an hour.)

“Sounds hot.”

“Shut up. You’re in love with a nineteen year old.”

“Fuck you.”

(They give up on stir fry and move onto their self-devised X Factor drinking game.)

**

The next time Caroline sees Harry is at one of Alex’s parties. And sure, she’s excited for the party, excited that Alex has asked her along. She’s just maybe more excited because Harry’s going to be there. Nick, of course, is coming too, he knows everyone in the whole of London and if there’s a party Nick Grimshaw isn’t at, well, it’s not really much of a party at all. He’d sat for hours as she changed dresses about four hundred times before settling on a short red one with lipstick to match and he hadn’t complained once. She really, really loves Nick.

They walk in and naturally know everyone there, they’ve been round the traps for a while, this is their crowd. She’s fairly sure she sees Serge Pizzorno and Miles Kane in the corner, talking about God knows what, a friend of hers from college who now works at the NME talking with The Maccabee’s manager at the bar and some guy she’d met at a Libertines gig a few years ago is already being a dick and manhandling what looks to be a fairly expensive sculpture. All in order, then.

She scans the crowd as Nick wanders over to the bar for drinks, and lingers on Alex, can’t help but smile. He’s chatting up a storm with some people from the industry, she’s pretty sure they work together, and he looks good. Clean cut, granted, but good. She wonders, briefly, how long it’ll last, before shelving that thought for another day.

“Look who I’ve found!” calls that oh-so-distinctive northern drawl of her ever-social housemate. Nick saunters over to her, drinks in hand and of course, Harry Styles in tow, walking behind him like a puppy.

“Hiya,” Harry says with a bashful grin, giving her a kiss on the cheek. She feels herself blush as he puts a hand on her waist briefly, her eyes fall closed. He smells like second-hand cigarette smoke and cranberry from his drink; she misses it almost as soon as he pulls away.

“Hi,” she smiles, steadfastly ignoring the gagging motions Nick is making behind Harry, “how’ve you been?”

“Really well,” he smiles, “yeah, really well. I read the article today, it’s fantastic. Can’t believe you actually printed all that shit I said about my guitar, for God’s sake, how embarrassing.”

She laughs at that, doesn’t miss the way his eyes light up slightly. He’s so lovely. Everything about him is intoxicating, or something, because when he sings he sounds so grown up and hardened but when he’s just standing here, talking, he’s so sweet and genuine and it’s that mix, she thinks, that will eventually undo her.

“No! No, it was charming and lovely, really.” She doesn’t mean to flirt, is the thing. It’s just…what she finds herself doing around him, more often than not. “Besides, people eat that stuff up. Should’ve heard everyone in the office fawning over the three of you after you left.”

It’s Harry’s turn to laugh, all bright and pretty.

“Yeah, about that, sorry for leaving early. We had to go to Zayn’s boyfriend’s art show across town and we didn’t want to be late. He’s a right talent, Liam,” Harry muses, gesturing over the room to where she sees Zayn and a lovely looking doe eyed boy laughing, “but I was thinking, we should make it up to you. We’re playing this show tomorrow and—”

He is cut off by the clinking of a spoon on a glass, conversation falling quiet and Calvin Harris track fading into silence over the speaker. She looks around to see who’d stopped the show like that, and of course it’s Alex.

“Hi everyone,” he says with a smile, climbing up onto a chair to speak. She glances at Harry to see what this is about, but he shrugs at her, doesn’t seem to know. He glances round the room to lock eyes with Zayn and Niall, who both give him wide unknowing eyes. Alex clears his throat.

“This is only gonna be quick,” he says loudly, looking round at his roomful of perplexed guests, “but ahh, basically, this party isn’t so much a big piss up as it is a farewell.”

The room descends into quiet whispers between friends. Caroline feels Nick look her way, but she doesn’t look back. She’s confused.

“None of you know this yet, but I’ve been offered to go and work for a big fucking band in New York,” he says, beaming, “you might have heard of them, actually. Their name is The Strokes.”

The room descends into shocked but enthused hollers, cheers and claps and drunken calls of well done, mate, which he acknowledges with a smile.

“I’m leaving next week, so…cheers, all of you, for everything. Thank you to 17 Black, who I see scattered through the room – it’s been fun, boys!”

Caroline looks over to Harry whose mouth is pressed into a tight line. He doesn’t blink, move, just nods politely as Alex locks eyes with him.

“I’ll come talk to you all in a moment, I don’t want to bore you all to tears, but let’s make this a big last night in London, yeah?” he yells, and a collective, if slightly baffled, cheer goes up from the crowd.

The music comes back on and Alex jumps off his chair and melts back into the crowd, but Caroline isn’t taking that. She follows the sounds of Alex, mate, congratu-fucking-lations! and Tell Julian hi from me, you lucky bastard and if you can get them to make a half decent record after that last pile of shite the world’ll owe you one until she manages to get a hand on his elbow.

He turns to look at her, surprised.

“Hi, Caz,” he says with a grin, “what do you think, then?”

She stares at him in disbelief, nods her head to a vaguely quiet corner of the room. He follows her wordlessly, and it’s only when they’re alone that she turns and looks at him.

“What?” he says dumbly, and her mouth falls open.

“Alex,” she says, “Alex, were you planning on telling me this any time soon?”

He blinks. “I…I just did, Caz. I just told everyone.”

She shakes her head, huffs out a small laugh. She should’ve fucking known.

“Yeah, but Alex. We’re…” she trails off helplessly, “you should’ve told me, you know…before.”

“Before what?” His brow is furrowed and he takes an impatient sip of his drink, “Look, Caroline, we went out a few times. You’re not my girlfriend, or anything. It was just a bit of fun, yeah?”

A bit of fun. The number of times she’s heard those four fucking words from people she’s dated. She doesn’t need to say anything else, it’s not worth it. She nods, once, tells him a cursory goodbye, and that’s…that’s it, really.

She finds Nick at the bar, talking to Florence of course. She just wants to go home and sleep for, like, ever.

“Hi,” she says quietly to him, “listen, I’m gonna go home, yeah?”

He looks at her with a sad smile, wraps a hand round her waist.

“I’ll take you, Caz, c’mon. Have a good night,” he says to Florence, giving her a kiss on the cheek. Caroline wants to refuse, wants to tell him to enjoy his night. But she could really use her best friend right now, and besides, he’ll no doubt be at three parties like this in the next week.

“Thanks,” she says quietly, and he keeps his arm round her the whole cab ride home.

**

Caroline kind of…retreats, for a few days. The beauty of her job is that once the interviews are done, she can work from home. She has a thing with Bruce Springsteen (she doesn’t know how she landed that one, either) to write up, and a big in depth analysis of Fiona Apple’s discography for the upcoming Women Of Note special edition. She’s keeping busy. She’s just doing it alone, in bed, accompanied by an endless supply of chocolate she’s stolen from Nick’s room.

Nick mostly leaves her to it, and for that she’s thankful. She loves him to death, but she likes to deal with things her own way – namely, by herself. He’s been there for enough break ups and fizzle outs to know that about her now, so he goes to work and goes out and fixes her breakfast and dinner when he’s in but that’s about it. If she feels like it, he’ll watch an episode of Skins or X Factor with her, but he never pushes anything. For all his bullshit, she really does love him quite a lot.

It’s four days after her spectacular fucking over when he knocks gingerly at her door, pushing it open with a look on his face she knows far too well.

“What happened?” she demands, closing her laptop, “did you shag someone you have to interview again?”

He glowers at her. It was one time, and he doesn’t even regret it, because Jonathan Pierce is really fucking pretty and it’s not his fault he didn’t know he was in The Drums, is it?

“No,” he says shortly. He sits down at the end of her bed and looks at her for a long moment till she nudges her with her foot.

“Well?”

He sighs. “Okay. Okay you remember how, like, a couple of weeks ago, that weird me and Harry and Louis Tomlinson coffee date happened?”

“Not sure how I’d forget it, since you bring it up every five seconds.”

He hits her lightly.

“Yeah, right, but. I went out last night, right, and Harry was there and he bought Louis along—“

“Oh my God!” she yells, “oh my God, did you shag him?”

“No,” he repeats emphatically, “God, Caz. But he was, like, really great.”

And the thing is, he was. His hair was quiffed and his shirt was all stripey and so very MTV and Nick fully expected him to be PR-Louis-Tomlinson and not coffee-shop-Louis-Tomlinson, but he wasn’t. Sure, he was different, in a room crammed with the industry, dickish and cheeky and loud, but Nick didn’t even find himself hating it. On a lot of pop stars that whole attitude is annoying as fuck, but on Louis it was, like …enticing and lovely and funny and by the time Louis had scathingly told a rather inebriated Chris Brown that technically, it wasn’t a career if it was based on assaulting your girlfriend, Nick was fairly sure he had stars in his eyes. (Also, he’s not sure why Chris Brown was there or where Louis found the balls to say something like that, but neither of those things seem too important.)

He winds up giving Caroline a minute by minute recount of the evening – and Caz, you should’ve heard him talking to all the indie fuckwits, he was hilarious; oh my God and he knew what I liked to drink by the end of the night; he teased Zayn’s boyfriend for like an hour and God, Cazza, he’s so wonderful. He kind of feels all of fourteen years old when he’s done. Caroline just has an eyebrow raised at him.

“Not that I’m not flattered to be your other half in this eighth grade sleepover,” she says with a smirk after a minute, “but why are you telling me all this?”

Nick sighs melodramatically, flopping down on the bed.

“We’regettingadrinktonight,” he says into a pillow, and she hears him perfectly fine but asks again anyway.

“You’re gonna need to speak up, Grimmy, love, I can’t hear you.”

“We’re getting a drink tonight,” he says, “like. A drink. Like. A date.”

She may or may not squeal a bit. It’s just, it’s been a while since he’s been on a proper date. A long while. As though channeling her thoughts, he sits up, eyes wide and panicked.

“Caz, d’you even know how long it’s been since I went on a proper date and not just, I don’t know, snogged someone at a club?”

She nods. “Yes, as a matter of fact. The last date you went on was March 2010, with that skinny lad from, God, what were they called…Crying Eyes, or something stupid?”

“Angel Eyes, and they weren’t half bad, thank you,” he shoots back, before fixing her with a look, “how do you even remember that, anyway?”

She rolls her eyes, waves him off. “Because it was the same time I broke up with that rapper from Chicago. That’s not the point though,” she continues, “why’re you looking all deer-in-the-headlights? He’s a nice guy. You like him. Take him out for a drink.”

She honestly doesn’t know how he manages to hook up with as many people as he does if he freaks out to this extent over a drink.

“I think I’m gonna cancel,” he says grandly, standing up and flinging his hands around, and God he’s always such a fucking drama queen, “Like, I don’t know where to take him, I don’t know what to wear, and he’s, like, beautiful, Cazza, God what’d he want with a nearly thirty year old writer for fuck’s—“

“Grim.” She says it loudly, stopping him in his frantic pacing round her room. He looks at her, all strung out and it’s be almost sweet really, if it wasn’t so ridiculous. She stands up with a sigh, walks towards the door and motions for him to follow.

“C’mon, you idiot, let’s go get you dressed before you give yourself a coronary.”

**

By the time she’s finally pushed Nick out the door – just say hello, for fuck’s sake Grim, you talk to pop stars for a living, you know how to greet him – she’s exhausted. She’d helped him choose the bar, constructed the text he sent Louis with the details and chosen his outfit. He’s maybe the most high maintenance person she knows.

And the thing is, it’s Saturday night and she maybe feels a little bit lonely. Alex has packed up and left. Nick’s found himself a boy she thinks he has half a chance of actually dating like a normal human being. The rest of her friends are either out tonight, or in LA, or Paris, or Ibiza, or wherever else they disappear to, and it’s just…she doesn’t feel like doing that. Not yet, anyway.

It’s as she settles down in front of the telly (God, since when has this been her life), that there’s a knock at the door that she assumes is pizza. She groans. Sometimes home delivery is not enough. She needs, like, couch delivery.

With a sigh she pulls herself up and grabs twenty quid from her wallet, pads down the hall and opens the door. And as she looks up, ready to settle in with a depressingly large pizza for one, she doesn’t see the guy who usually drops off her takeout. No, instead, it is Harry Styles.

“Hi,” he says with a smile. He’s got a Tesco bag in one hand which she can see contains as awfully large tub of ice cream, his keys and wallet in the other. He’s a little out of breath as though he’s been running, and he bites his lip as she looks him up and down, out of surprise at seeing him at her door more than anything else.

“Hi,” she says, blinking up at him. Of course he chooses the one night she’s wearing tracksuit pants and an old Passion Pit shirt to drop in, of course. It couldn’t have been one of the many, many nights that she’s getting ready to go out, hair done, legs looking seven feet long in a skirt and heels. No, it is this way because the world hates her right now.

“Umm, sorry, y’know, for showing up like this,” he says, a little mumbly but so, so endearing, “I just thought. Y’know. It’s been a shit week, maybe you could use some company. I could use some company,” he says with a small smile, and, well. Who’s she to say no to that?

“How’d you know I’d be alone tonight?” she asks, and Harry just rolls his eyes.

“Lou didn’t shut up all fucking day about going out with Grimmy tonight. Nearly had a breakdown over it, I had to talk him out of canceling.”

Caroline laughs, because of course Nick would find the only person on the planet as neurotic as he is.

“They’re going to make quite a pair,” she muses with a smile, before realizing Harry’s still stood out on her doorstep. “Come in, then, I’ve got pizza coming.”

And the thing is, half an hour later, she’s the happiest she’s been all week. Maybe it’s because she’s finally accepting company, but somehow it feels like more, that it’s specifically Harry that’s cheering her up. They commiserate, for a while, over Alex. They’ve both been dumped in a way; Harry and the band had no idea he was leaving to go to America. They’re manager-less now, and that’s frightening because bands need a team to function. And Harry’s has just up and left. It’s just…shit, for them both. She likes that someone else understands that.

“Was going to bring a dartboard with his face on,” Harry says over a slice of pizza, “only I couldn’t fit it in a supermarket bag.”

She laughs, gestures to the half eaten tub of vanilla ice cream sitting between them.

“Aren’t you meant to, like, do a gram of coke when you’re upset, or something?” she teases, “ice cream’s not very rockstar.”

He laughs, shakes his head. “Maybe next time. Maybe once we’ve burnt through, like, three managers or something, maybe then I’ll have to turn to drugs. I think ice cream’s better though.”

She nods her agreement, smiles up at him. “Can I ask you something?”

He nods, looks genuinely interested in what she’s about to say.

She points at his chest. “What do the swallows mean?” She has a thing about tattoos, likes asking people about them. Harry’s got so many, she figures it’d take him an hour to explain them all but in a strange way, she knows she’d like to hear all the little stories they no doubt carry.

He looks like she’s just given him a ray of sunshine at that, and sets about telling her how it’s an old sailors tattoo, it has to do with traveling, and since they travel a lot he thought it was a nice sentiment.

(They only get halfway through the ones on his left arm when one o’clock hits and he has to leave, but they’re not really bothered. She knows, somehow, that he’ll be back to tell her about the rest of them.)

**

Nick, meanwhile, is tumbling out of the back door of the fourth bar of the evening, a laughing Louis in tow, flushed a pretty pink from the booze and the cold snap.

“Oi!” Nick grins as Louis winks and runs off down the footpath with his scarf, “c’mere, you moron, give it back!”

Louis just laughs and turns back to him, waggles his eyebrows as if daring Nick to come closer. Which he does, of course, because regardless of the scarf he’d quite like to wrap Louis Tomlinson up right now and snog him silly.

Louis manages to duck out of his grip the first time round but Nick gets him on the second, coming up behind him and wrapping his arms round Louis’ waist, laughing into his hair. Louis spins in his grip, and Nick is met with the most startlingly blue eyes blinking up at him, surprisingly happy and soft.

“Hi,” Louis says, smiling bright. Nick feels kind of awkward, or something, with his arms still around him, considering they’ve not known each other that long. Louis doesn’t seem to care though, just laughs lightly as he presses up onto his tiptoes and throws the stupid scarf back around Nick’s neck. He leans in then, still on his toes, for God’s sake, as if he could be any fucking cuter, and kisses Nick quietly, eyes fluttering closed as he presses their lips together and places his hands on Nick’s waist. It’s not leading to anything, it’s sweet and light but it’s been a while since Nick’s been kissed like that, and yeah. Yeah, it’s really, really nice.

Louis breaks away after a moment, eyes shining, and he bites his lip, looks at the ground.

“Hi,” Nick replies belatedly, slightly croaky. Louis just laughs again, disentangles himself from Nick’s embrace.

“I’ve got to be up early in the morning, so I should go. But you should call me,” he says with a raised eyebrow, “or I’ll be proper sad. I’ll put a fatwa out on you, or something.”

Nick just snorts, equal parts sickeningly endeared to his sense of humour and surprised he knows what a fatwa is.

“What, a pop star fatwa? Get me killed by Rihanna, or summat?”

“Maybe not Rihanna,” Louis muses idly, “I don’t know her. Katy Perry okay?”

Nick rolls his eyes, shakes his head. “Alright, name dropper, get in a cab before I decide against calling you.”

Louis smirks, hails down the nearest cab but pauses before he steps inside.

“I had a really nice time tonight,” he says, and there it is again, that shift from witty and snarky and clever to sheepish and shy and sweet, Nick wonders if he’ll ever get used to it, “thanks.”

“Me too,” Nick says, and he wonders vaguely if he’s been missing out on feeling this happy for the last two and a half years of his no dating policy, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

He doesn’t miss the small smile Louis has on his face as he steps into the cab.

**

The next few weeks mostly involve Nick and Caroline pretending not to care about the other’s relationship status whilst embarking upon elaborate stakeouts to ascertain just that.

Nick notices that Harry is around the flat a lot more. And like, for the first week, Harry’s pretexts of wanting to borrow a record of Nick’s or coming to get his season two DVD of Misfits back make some sort of sense, and Nick takes them without much thought. But then he comes home in between interviews to find Harry and Caroline perched at the kitchen bench drinking tea and laughing and the blush that creeps up Harry’s face as Nick asks so what’re you two getting up to, then is kind of hard to miss. And then there’s the time Harry’s at the office, sitting at Caroline’s desk waiting to take her to lunch, or the time Harry texts Nick instead of Caroline Hii, you want to do something this afternoon? I was thinking we could get ice cream, old times sake and all that .x and Nick becomes genuinely curious as to what’s happening between them.

Caroline doesn’t say anything, then again he doesn’t expect her to. She can be quite private about things like this, particularly in the early stages of relationships and she’s probably uncomfortable considering he’s Nick’s friend and nineteen and famous and all. Nick isn’t really inclined to ask questions; he loves them both dearly and hopes they’re happy, knows they’ll be good for each other.

(He can’t resist texting Harry back though, So romantic darling! What time do you want me? Lots of Love, Cazza, wait, I mean Nick, xxx. So sue him, he can be a prick.)

But Nick isn’t the only one trying to stealthily observe his best friend and their growing relationship. No, Caroline actually has her own curiosities to subtly explore. The first time she properly realises this could actually be more than Nick’s pop star obsession of the month is when he walks into the apartment with a bunch of flowers. At first, she thinks Louis must’ve given them to him which is ridiculously sweet but she also feels a little bad, because Nick’s not like that, won’t respond to that. But then he runs upstairs to grab a jacket and she can’t help sneaking a glance at the card, and, well, she was wrong. Told you I’d call, didn’t I?, it says, -N xx. No, these are for Louis. And for a normal person, it’d be a sweet gesture. For Nick, it makes her nervous.

And then everything starts adding up, and she just wants to ask but she doesn’t want to rush him, so she just watches, quietly. Notices the way he’s mysteriously popping out of work to grab coffee more than usual, the times that Louis’ll come up in conversation when Harry’s hanging around and he’ll get all quiet and bite his lip. Caroline’s personal favourite is whenever she gets within striking distance of seeing his texts and he grabs his phone all coyly and defensively because apparently he is thirteen years old. It’s so stupidly sweet; it’s also really bugging her that he’s not saying anything. (She steadfastly ignores the fact that she’s also not exactly being forthcoming about her…whatever it is with Harry, because that’s not important right now. Or something.)

It all comes to a rather anticlimatic head three weeks later, over breakfast.

“Cazza,” Nick says slowly, “you doing anything tonight?”

She shakes her head through a mouthful of cereal. “Nah, was going to go to a gig but I’m tired. Probably just stay in. Why?”

He winces, a little. “Don’t laugh,” he says, and immediately her eyes light up.

“Okay.”

“No, I mean it, don’t laugh.”

“Okay.”

He takes a deep breath. “I kind of…I’m having Louis over tonight. Like, as in, properly over. Cooking him dinner, and whatever.”

She really, really wants to laugh. The thought of Nick in the kitchen is in equal parts hilarious and terrifying.

“Babe,” she says, once she’s fairly sure she’s regained composure, “babe, that’s really, really cute.”

He seems the tiniest bit pleased at that, smiling down at his toast.

“Right. But the thing is, yeah, that like, I kind of want him to stay over, and whatever, and it’s like—“

She holds her hand up to shut up his word vomit (what is it about Louis that makes the chattiest person she’s ever met get all awkward and clammed up?), smiles at him.

“’S’okay,” she says, “I’ll just go to Harry’s. He wants me to listen to a couple of demos anyway.”

“Are you two—“

“A bit. Yeah, sort of, I think so. Are you and Louis—“

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

There is, of course, an unspoken agreement that they will need to discuss all of this in minute detail in the coming days. He kisses her on the cheek and she brushes crumbs from his face as he slings his bag over his shoulder and goes into work, and she heads upstairs to get ready to go interview Noel Fielding at a theme park.

**

“Louis!” Nick exclaims several hours, three outfits and one threat of a cancellation later, dropping his fork with a slightly over-dramatic clatter, “Louis, you can’t tell an interviewer that that you’re considering carrying round a golf club to bat off fans. Has anyone ever given you PR training? Do you even know what PR stands for?”

Louis rolls his eyes with a grin, taking a bite of chicken.

“It was off the record,” he says, “besides, don’t go lecturing me. I’ve read your articles, you know; you asked Ellie Goulding why she insisted on being…what was it?” He pretends to be trying to recall the quote, Nick just glares because he knows what’s coming.

“Oh, that’s right,” Louis says, “why she insisted on being so bloody whiny all the time.”

“It was a fair point,” Nick grumbles, and Louis just laughs, “it was! I have journalistic integrity, did you know that? I ask tough questions.”

Louis just snorts and shakes his head, but he’s still smiling.

It’s actually been a remarkably disaster-free night. Nick’s not caused any major fire hazards, Louis’d turned up all bright-eyed and lovely only ten minutes late, loudly proclaiming his innocence in a slight car accident he may have gotten into on the way over, and it had all sort of gone from there. Louis had cracked open a beer (Nick kind of loves that about him, that he can walk in anywhere and make it his own, doesn’t wait for an invitation to grab a drink or put his coat down), planted himself on the couch and said right, what’re you cooking me, Grimshaw?

Nick had flipped him off and stalked back to the kitchen. He most certainly did not smile as he heard Louis’ laugh coming from the other room.

“Anyway,” Louis says, snapping him out of his thoughts, “what’re you writing this week?”

Nick looks at him quizzically. “Do you actually care?” he asks, and Louis’ jaw drops.

“Course I do! I’m capable of talking about something other than myself, you know,” he says primly, and Nick just laughs, circles his finger across the top of his glass.

“I’m writing about Record Store Day,” he says slowly, smirking at Louis’ entirely predictable eye roll, “see, told you you didn’t care.”

Louis sighs as though the world has done him an injustice. “Just, like, buy a CD. Why does it matter?” he asks, and Nick’s fairly sure it’s just to get a rise out of him, but it works.

“Are you serious?” he half-shrieks, and Louis is clearly trying his hardest not to look smug, “do you honestly think having a few albums burnt onto your laptop is an actual good alternative to a record?”

Louis puts his fork down, crossed his arms indignantly. “Yeah,” he says brazenly, “convince me otherwise.”

Nick eyes him down for a moment before nodding, standing up.

“Alright, Tomlinson, come with me,” he says, and without another word he walks off to his favourite room in the house, dragging Louis with him.

Caroline and Nick pay a ridiculous amount of rent for a three bedroom apartment in the middle of London when they really only need two, but there’s a reason for it. They don’t need a study, or a gym, or a library. No, they need a room for their music. Because in addition to being two of the most pretentious people on the planet (a fact they’ll freely admit, thank you very much), they also have a shitload of music that they really do need to store somewhere.

The walls of the spare room are lined meticulously in their records, arranged in alphabetical order by artist. Nick still remembers the days they’d spent unpacking boxes and boxes of albums, putting little stickers on the back so they knew whose was whose but combining them for now, laughing at the truly awful ones buried in and amongst the good. They’d spent a ridiculous amount of their month’s pay on shelves to hold them all, and when they were done the spare room had resembled more of a shrine to vinyl than the disheveled guest bedroom of two vaguely dysfunctional writers.

Nick loves it. He and Caroline spend hours in here, combing through the thousands of records that they own between them and playing whichever obscure and unlistened to artist they happen to come across. And so when he opens the door and stands back with a smile to let Louis see it, he kind of wants him to love it too.

He (reluctantly) does. Nick sees his eyes grow wide, impressed, at the catalogue in front of him, the sleeves and sleeves lining the walls, tucked away in drawers, piled up in the corner.

“Shit,” he breathes, “these all yours?”

“Mine and Caz’s,” Nick says a little proudly, “better than an iTunes library, then?” he asks, not quite able to resist, and Louis shoots him a half-withering stare.

“Maybe,” he mutters, stepping inside, “can I, y’know…touch them?”

Nick snorts, a little endeared to this pop star in his record room. “Be my guest,” he says.

He watches as Louis combs through the shelves, brushes his hands over everything in sight. He seems genuinely interested, which surprises Nick, because he hasn’t even made a hipster joke yet, hasn’t said anything like Christ, Nicholas, do you not have a job? Do you just pretend to be a writer and sit in this room all day? He turns to Nick with a smile, eyebrows raised.

“Pick me something to listen to?” he asks, and not for the first time Nick finds himself entirely turned on by Louis’ voice, all raspy and lazy vowels. He pads across the room to where Louis’ standing, thumbing through The Who’s discography.

“Sure,” he murmurs, and Louis wheels around, seems a little shocked that he’s come so close. Nick just laughs, brushes a hand up and down his arm soothingly. “Did I scare you darling?” he asks with a laugh, and Louis just rolls his eyes, leans back on the wall.

“You most certainly did not,” he retorts, “I just—“

And Nick likes him talking, and everything. But he’s wanted to kiss Louis all night, and cutting him off when he speaks is one of Nick’s favourite things to do. Louis seems to freeze up at first, a little taken aback at the way Nick’s kind of recklessly just scooped him up and planted one on him, but by the time Nick’s coaxed Louis’ chin up so he can kiss him properly, Louis is standing up on his toes and throwing his arms round Nick’s neck. Nick runs a hand down Louis’ back and keeps his hands on his waist, drawing him closer and feeling the way Louis’ calves seem to waver a little at the strain of leaning up to Nick’s lips.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, and with a sigh he hitches Louis’ thigh up round himself till he’s off the ground, back pressed against the wall and ankles crossed behind Nick’s back. It’s maybe really fucking hot, how small Louis is compared to him, but – for the millionth fucking time in the short time they’ve known each other – Louis rolls his eyes, cheeks growing red.

“I’m not a fucking kid,” he says, pressing his lips to Nick’s quickly, “you don’t have to—“

“I want to,” Nick says offhandedly, “s’nice. You gonna shut up now and let me kiss you?”

Louis holds his gaze for a moment before nodding, smiling, and kissing Nick properly, tongue flicking into his mouth and moaning slightly at the sensation, hand grabbing at the Pretenders-to-Radiohead shelf for support. Nick can’t help but smile, thinks they should both probably agree to a strict no-talking rule during times like this because really, they both need to shut up. He can’t resist, though.

“Still want me to find you a record that’ll change your life?” he asks with a smirk, nodding at Louis’ hand and pulling away from his lips for a second. He supposes he should feel strained, Louis in his arms, but he’s impossibly light, all wrapped around Nick, so obviously flushed and turned on.

“Later,” Louis mutters, and Nick can’t help but smile at his sudden lack of interest in the music lining the walls, “this now.”

And yeah, Nick’s not going to argue. He likes his records, but he likes Louis Tomlinson kissing him more.

He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, but at the sound of a breathy little oh from Louis, who runs his hands through Nick’s hair, he decides it can wait till later.

**

How’s it going? Burn the flat down yet? X

Caroline taps the text out and smiles as she throws her phone back in her bag; she kind of figures she should know if all her earthly possessions have been burnt to a crisp on account of Nick’s cooking.

She has Harry’s laptop next to her, playing a few of the new songs the band’ve recorded. She was kind of reluctant to hear them, actually, (nothing good comes of disliking new material that you’ve been selected to be the appraiser of), but these songs are wonderful. Harry’s an amazingly talented songwriter, despite only having one album out so far. She bites her lip and curls up on his couch, lets herself focus. She can already pick which one will be the single, which one the NME will love and the slower, quieter one that Q Magazine will hate. Pitchfork will love them all because they claim to have discovered 17 Black and aren’t likely to let that go. But the songs are really good. She hopes she’ll get to write about them.

“So what do you think?”

She sits up as Harry walks back into the room with a smile, kicking the door between the living room and the kitchen closed with his foot. He’s got a bottle of wine and two glasses in his hands, which seems to overwhelm him because he barely makes it to the couch without falling over. She laughs quietly, takes one of the glasses from his hands, which he seems immensely grateful for. Only Harry Styles could play an album’s worth of lead guitar and vocals without a second’s thought but need all his powers of concentration to simultaneously carry glassware and close a door. He’s so ridiculously sweet. Caroline wonders if she’ll ever stop thinking that.

“They’re fantastic,” she says, and he rolls his eyes but she doesn’t miss the blush on his cheeks. “No, really, they’re brilliant,” she continues, “I’d tell you if they were crap, you know that.”

He laughs. “I can imagine.”

“I would! These are amazing. They for the new record?”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, “I’m not sure. We’re just testing it all out, really, second record’s kind of daunting.”

She nods, takes a sip of her drink. He seems to watch her like she’s intensely fascinating, like every one of her movements has to be seen. She imagines were it someone else she’d find it off-putting but with Harry it’s flattering. He’s not doing it to be creepy, he’s doing it because he genuinely finds her interesting. She’s learnt that about him over the last month or so, he is only ever genuine. It’s kind of amazing.

“If it makes you feel any better,” she says, taking a sip of her drink, “Pete Doherty and Carl Barat managed to write one of the greatest second albums in history while fucked off their faces ninety percent of the time. I’m fairly sure you can do this.”

He shakes his head with a laugh, hair falling into his eyes before he brushes it away.

“You always know just what to say,” he says sarcastically, rolling his eyes, “anyway, d’you want something to eat?”

She nods, and he motions for her to follow him to the kitchen. He’s got a lovely place, actually, she’s not really been here long enough to notice it before but it’s all very I’m-in-a-cool-indie-band-that-did-unexpectedly-well-so-I-can-afford-high-rent; guitars lining the wall, awards, clippings from magazines framed and stuck up around the place. Some of his favourite record sleeves are mounted too; the Rolling Stones’ Some Girls hangs over the kitchen sink and back in the lounge room Abbey Road is next to the TV. She kind of wishes she still had an apartment like this, rather than her own which is mostly covered in paper and crumpled clothes and Nick’s various pairs of headphones.

“I don’t really know what I’ve got, if I’m honest,” Harry says from where his head’s in the fridge, “it’s like…can we cook anything from eggs and cheese?”

She sets her glass down with a smile, walks over to peer into the fridge with him. She is reminded with unfortunate clarity that he is indeed nineteen, only someone who’s recently moved out of home could possibly have a fridge so understocked.

“I’m sure we could; I don’t think it’d qualify as dinner, though,” she says thoughtfully, before turning to him. He’s awfully close, smiling sheepishly at her, eyes twinkling before dropping to look at the floor briefly. Caroline feels her heart pick up, somewhat, her face grow hot even though she imagines she should be cold on account of being head and shoulders deep in Harry’s fridge.

And yes, she is trying to Grow Up. And kissing this nineteen year old rockstar is probably a little counter productive to that. But the thing is, he’s the loveliest person she’s met in a long, long time. He’s polite and caring and concerned, he brings her ice cream when he thinks she might need some company, he has all these stories and ideas and seems so utterly amazed by his own success. He stares at her like she’s crafted from glass, or something, and sometimes appears overwhelmed by her, like maybe he feels vulnerable. She does too, a little, around him, he’s so disarmingly honest. And maybe, (she hopes, anyway), maybe that’s more productive than Growing Up.

She’s not really sure how it happens – Harry will later claim that she tripped him, she doesn’t believe that for a second – but as they both go to stand up, they reach to close the fridge at the same time, hands bumping. Harry’s eyes lift up to hers and it’s only after a few seconds that she realizes he hasn’t moved his hand. Neither has she.

“We should, y’know, close the—“

“Yeah,” Harry says, cutting her off, and in perhaps the most coordinated act she’s ever seen him perform, he bangs the stainless steel door shut, surges forward, and kisses her.

Caroline is used to kissing guys in clubs, or at parties, or in half-dark bedrooms after she’s had a bit to drink. Sober, in a brightly lit kitchen at half ten is not really her preferred snogging setting. But Harry…fuck, he makes it work. He pushes her gently back into the bench top so she’s leaning against it, one hand on Harry’s waist and the other on his right cheek. He seems to mirror her, left hand kneading into her hip and waist and the other tangling in her hair, winding it round his fingers and tugging at it softly. His lips are soft, and sweet like wine; she can smell the fruitiness in his hair and the warmth radiating from his skin. Her hand finds its way to his neck, thumb stroking his cheek softly because he seems taken aback, or something, the way his hands roam from her stomach to her waist to her side, like he wants to touch everywhere but he’s not sure if he’s allowed.

She shifts in his grip, pressing herself up into him so that he can get a hand on her arse, her arms round him, and by God does he capitalize. She feels his breath hitch slightly as she bites at his lip, the way he tenses up but seems to relax into her at the same time, hand running down the curve of her arse and to her thigh, moaning slightly as he grabs her leg and pulls it up. She can feel him half hard already beneath her, and as he works his way to her neck and begins sucking and biting there, she can’t help but stutter out an oh and grind up into him, sending shivers down her spine.

“Fuck,” he whispers, before pulling away, resting his forehead against hers with a smile and brushing the hair off her face, “d’you wanna…”

“Yeah,” she replies shortly, leaning up and kissing him again.

“You sure?”

And of course he asks, because he’s nineteen but more than that he’s Harry Styles and it seems to be his one true calling to make sure she’s okay. She smiles as she kisses him, at the way he can simultaneously be asking are you sure but licking into her mouth filthily, hungrily; hands already curving round her breasts, cock straining against his jeans. She places her arms around his neck and melts into the touch, the soft warmth of his hands as they touch her everywhere; taking his time as though he’s trying to remember every inch of her.

“’Course,” she pants, “c’mon then.”

Needless to say, she does not quite make it home that night.

**

It is ten in the morning as Nick is on his way out. He smiles to himself as he peers round his bedroom door to see a sleepy little pop star all curled up under his duvet, sun hitting his tan and his messy hair. He’s breathing slowly, nuzzling into Nick’s pillow and, like, Nick would lie under oath about this but he’s really incredibly lucky to have landed a guy like Louis.

Couldn’t possibly wake you up, Princess, give us a call when you arise. N xx. He leaves the note taped obnoxiously to Louis’ chest, laughs quietly as Louis snuffles and turns away from him.

Nick picks his phone and keys up off the table and as he walks down the hall to the front door – hurriedly, because as usual, he’s running late – it squeaks open, and who should appear in her clothes from the night before but Caroline, hair all tousled, eyes bright, small smile on her lips.

He holds a finger up to his lips so she doesn’t wake Louis, and she nods, slips her heels off and tiptoes down the hall.

“Get laid last night?” she whispers as they approach each other, and he nods.

“You?” he asks. She hangs her coat up and nods too.

They pass each other and high five quietly as Nick slips out the door to go interview Noel Gallagher. His life is ridiculously, ridiculously good.

**

It is three months later.

Glastonbury has rolled around again, and Nick and Caroline stand somewhat unenthused in their wellies on day two. Caroline, of fucking course, still looks gorgeous, legs a mile long, hair somehow still all pretty and wavy after two days in a tent. Nick’s fairly sure he looks like shit – he feels like shit, if it’s anything to go by.

“I swear,” he mutters, “it’s a good thing this is only every two years because it’s a nightmare to report.”

Caroline just rolls her eyes. “Maybe if you didn’t drink your weight in vodka every night it wouldn’t be quite so bad,” she points out, “besides, you love Glastonbury. So shut up and enjoy yourself.”

Nick opens his mouth to reply but true to form, he is interrupted by a voice behind him, the same fucking voice that has been interrupting him for the better part of the last four months.

“She’s right, you know, I don’t even know any of these bands so the least you could do is be bearable to hang out with.”

Nick shakes his head as he turns round to see Louis standing there, arms crossed and looking thoroughly unimpressed. His hair is somehow fucking perfect, styled and shiny and like, really, he thinks both Louis and Caroline must be going to some secret salon while they’re here. He needs to make friends with more unattractive people, he decides, because these two are too much.

“Wondering where you got to, wandering off without me last night,” he says, and can’t help smiling as Louis comes and slots himself into Nick’s side, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Places to go, people to see, Nicholas,” he says airily, pushing his sunglasses up his nose, “can’t expect me to stand around watching you get pissed all night.”

“You could’ve gotten pissed too, you know,” he reasons, pinching Louis’ side to watch him squirm, and Caroline almost laughs at the indignant expression on his face.

“If you think I’m gonna sit around drinking a fifteen quid bottle of vodka you pulled out your sleeping bag you’re so, so incredibly uninformed,” he sniffs, “but anyway. Why’d you make me trek all the way over here?”

Nick smiles. “I want to take you to see a band I love,” he says, “they’re called Everything Everything.”

Louis just shrugs, nods. “Okay, but I need to be back to catch the end of Harry’s set. I, like, promised I’d go.”

“And you have to interview Justice at two,” Caroline reminds Nick, “so you better go now. I have to get to Harry’s stage, but you two have fun.”

Nick and Louis both give her a kiss on a cheek before they walk off and she distinctly hears Louis hiss, she smells fine, so it’s obviously not your tent. Can you, like, take a shower or something, Nicholas, God and Nick’s retort it’s a music festival, Lou. You’re meant to get dirty, not swan around like you’re staying in the fucking Regent.

She smiles. Idiots, the pair of them, fucking idiots.

It takes her about fifteen minutes to find the stage but finally she gets there. They’re not due on for another twenty minutes or so and she sighs, annoyed at herself. She wanted to be right up front so Harry would see her there, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to happen, even with her prime crowd dodging skills.

She pulls out her phone to text him an apology, but already waiting for her is a message from him.

Hiya Caz, I can see you in the crowd :) come backstage for a second? .x

She smiles, makes her way to the side entrance and flashes her journalist VIP ID to get through. There are a few bands milling around, 17 Black’s new manager who gives her a wave as she makes her way to the holding room, and a whole slew of riders with weird food on them. She sees one with seven bowls of M’n’Ms, knows immediately that it’s Harry’s.

She rounds the corner to their dressing room and runs straight into a tall lanky body that, judging by the smell of secondhand cigarette smoke and cranberry (which she has since learnt is not from his drinks but from his shampoo), is Harry. She looks up and smiles as he plants a kiss on both her cheeks and then sweetly on her lips, smiling as he takes her hand and they walk towards the stage.

“Thanks for coming, darling,” he says, threading their fingers together as they walk. He grabs a handful of M’n’Ms off the rider (she knew it) and smiles.

“So I was thinking,” he starts conversationally, “that, like, it’s really hot out there and whatever, so you can, y’know, watch side of stage if you’d like.”

His eyes are all lit up and hopeful at that, like he’s just offered her the chance to go watch them play on the moon or something. She’s been writing for fairly big publications for over a decade, can’t remember the last time she’d watched a gig anywhere but side of stage. But he seems so fucking amazed, like he’s giving her this huge opportunity, genuinely excited, and it’s just. He’s the best person she’s ever met, the sweetest and loveliest and the only person she’s ever dated who does so, so much to make her happy. Her chest feels tight, or something, looking at his face, and she can’t help but smile, let out a small laugh.

“I’d really, really, like that,” she says, and she feels the smile on his lips as she leans up to kiss him, his hand on the small of her back.

She stays for the whole set, mesmerized as always by his voice and the way his shirt hangs off his collarbones and all the little tattoos spread over his body. She laughs as he talks to the crowd and they eat it up, and when he looks over at her in the encore and winks, she can’t help but blush and run a hand a little self-consciously through her hair.

“My name’s Harry Styles, and we’re 17 Black,” he yells out into the crowd, his words engulfed by the screams and shouts of the people spreading out in front of the stage as the sun goes down, “and we have one more, extra special song to play for you, Glastonbury. This is for a very lovely lady who’s here with us tonight, and I’m not gonna say her name ‘cos she’ll probably kill me, but. This one’s for you, sweetheart.”

And okay, so she’s dated a lot of indie rockstars with good hair and even better tattoos. She’s watched a lot of their gigs side of stage at one festival or another.

But no one has ever, ever, sung Neil Diamond’s – yes, here Harry is, having somehow coerced his band into covering Neil Diamond – Sweet Caroline to her in front of a crowd of thousands, making them drunkenly sing along at the chorus.

“I told him that was the sappiest thing ever,” says a voice behind her, and soon enough she’s flanked either side by a slightly puffed and haggard looking Nick and a suitably relaxed Louis, “but he made them learn it anyway. Idiot,” Louis says fondly, and Caroline just laughs.

“Good old Harry Styles,” Nick proclaims, “I told him that, like, people don’t actually do this kind of thing. Anyway,” he sighs, “boy’ll never learn, I don’t think.”

“Shut up, both of you,” she says with a smile, laughing as Harry winks over at her, “it’s sweet,” she says, and she means it.

The sun is setting, she’s got her best friend next to her with his eyes adoringly on the boy who’s made him stupidly happy, and a guy she’s really quite in love with singing her a song at the country’s biggest music festival.

Caroline is, like, fairly certain this is going to be a good night.


End file.
